I sat down to look for a writing prompt on the internet sick of my stories of the same guy, the same feelings, the same place. But, maybe thats what writing is all about–dissecting events through details to make sense of things that evade my understanding. I used to write in a style that I adopted from the Beats–journalistic, shocking, filled with the iconic hobo character who I found so fascinating. In college, obtaining my English degree, enamoured by Medieval literature and freshman colloquium examining great Western works.
My favorite authors did not turn out to be the Beats and I became disillusioned with tales of acid trips and anti-government articles that only seemed to birth a generation of folks who read the works to recreate the dissonance of following rules and partying in secret. I’ve never met a true anarchist or many others who take politicking out of the two houses–right or left. This year, I’ve decided not even to follow politics. I understand that acts being performed anger folks, but why not try to take that passion to a micro-level. This is how my favorite author emerged in my life–Marcel Proust. Master of non fiction and detail. In writing group the other night a very long sentence in my writing was pointed out and I lit up inside–writing like Proust.
I wake up at around 4:30 am and open my whispy white curtains and collect empty Powerade bottles gulped from in between dreams of nature scapes that return to me over and over and as I drive down the curvy road to town I wonder if I have been here before surrounded by tall pine trees and sun beating down through thin mountain air. I fill the tea kettle with faucet water and make my bed, wash dishes while the stainless steel pot starts to giggle with hot bubbling water and pour over grounds watching foamy brown water give off a rainbow sheen glistening like an oil patch in a drive-in parking lot. I pour hot, thick liquid into my only coffee cup–red, black, and chipped and tilt the carton of almond milk for a small pour always sighing at that first drink.
Usually, I sweep the floors and find the swooshing of the broom bristles comforting as tiny piles of mountain dust and crusty chicken collect in little cairnes of my kitchen. I cannot stand the feel of crumbs beneath my feet and become aware of my own idiosyncacies as others don’t seem to mind the tiny particles and remark on my affinity for sweeping. Archaetypes and metaphors come to mind–the Disney princess sweeping looking forlorn by the fireplace, the giant michevious broom splintering into a thousand tiny ominous brooms filling the alchemist’s basement with water. I remember last year and so many years when the piles of dust were filled with bundles of Lou Dog fur and I muse on another pet taking morning and evening walks that give me the swept earth feeling I crave.
I think on who would not mind my sweeping, who would take in my anxiety like an old cup of bitter micowaved coffee–still thankful for the symbol of morning elixir. Still thankful to be awake with me. Who would hardly ever tell me to slow down or speak up or talk about my intensity as if I can control the way I don’t seem to filter myself or the world. One who would be chill rather than telling me to chill letting my mirror neurons kick in and find peace in teaching yoga and meditation–meditation not cooling my fired up personality right away but invoking the cold waters of my soul shaking away the need to be clear and dirty palms up in offering of the person that I am exactly in this moment.
My favorite poets are from the Romantic era along with my favorite pianists. Chopin pieces filled with trills that I used to practice over and over at the piano bench my fingers like a broom, pinky sweeping over high notes and right hand jumping octaves to create the sweet sad sound of a nocturne. Whitman speaks of the human flesh becoming a poem and I see my spindly arms at the top of the page creating the metaphor of a storm swirling on a high prairie lighting up the big sky full of stars. Stars I see every morning and night as I open and close the white curtains to my deck facing the world. And so I face the world in my poem-body and Proustian mind getting lost in the details yet feeling the glimmer of light in one thousand mirrors becoming one shining beam of energy, one focused point of my life.
“I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.
One world is aware, and by the far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own today or in ten thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness, I can wait.”
― Walt Whitman